


The Three-Month-Old Letter

by LindeHobbit



Series: Writing Our Hearts [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, lots of talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 00:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14390502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindeHobbit/pseuds/LindeHobbit
Summary: Elio receives an important letter from Oliver three months(!) after he wrote it.





	The Three-Month-Old Letter

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a response to a prompt from a writer friend: "the secret in the delayed letter." It was a fun way to play with an idea I'd been thinking about for a while. I love that the CMBYN movie was left with an open ending; it lets me envision a brighter future for Elio and Oliver than what the book laid out. I love these boys and want them to be happy together! This story is mostly movie-verse, but with a few book details tossed in here and there.
> 
> My apologies for (probably) unfairly maligning the Italian postal service.
> 
> Please do not re-post my work without my permission. Thank you.

Monday, April 30, 1984

Our apartment was quiet; my parents were both at work, and Mafalda was napping. I had just come in from school and was rummaging around in the kitchen for a snack when I spotted it: a letter on the table, addressed to me. I recognized the handwriting immediately.

My hands trembled as I held the envelope; it was frayed around the edges, and a small tear threatened to open one corner. The American stamps commemorated the Olympics of the summer of 1983. Our summer. The postmark was from 3 months ago! Stupid, ridiculous Italian post! The same disregard for time and hurrying that I often loved about Italian society made me vibrate with irrational anger at the carelessness that had kept these words from me for so long.

I slipped my finger inside the torn corner and parted the seal. Lifting the creamy white paper to my nose, I inhaled deeply, trying to catch any scent that might be his still clinging to the page. The pads of my fingers tingled, knowing that he had held this letter, touched it, sprawled his writing across it. 3 months ago!

Oliver’s neat, blocky cursive greeted me like an old friend. But I was holding my breath to see what he had to say.

_January 29, 1984_

_Dear Elio,_

_I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just spit it out: I’m not getting married. I’ve called it off. She is hurt but I think also a little bit relieved; she knew something was up with me, even if she couldn’t say exactly what it was. She’s a good person and deserves better than a husband whose mind would always be somewhere else. My parents are upset, but that’s not at all surprising. They’re never happy with me these days anyway, so it hardly matters._

_Our phone call in December was a turning point for me, Elio. Talking to you, hearing your voice, helped me remember who I am. Italy Oliver and New York Oliver might as well be two different people. But Italy Oliver is my true self, or at least the Oliver I want to become…free to travel, study, learn and wander. I’m not ready to settle down yet. My experience with your family last summer was as enlightening as several years of graduate school. Bringing that statue up out of the water…ah, that day will always stand out in my memory! Seeing my studies come off the page like that…it was magic. I touched the sculpture and thought about its journey through time, how it might have felt forgotten on the sea floor and then was rediscovered, to be enjoyed again by new eyes, new hands. It made my work come alive for me in a way that it hadn’t before._

_But of course, I haven’t even mentioned the most remarkable thing about last summer: YOU. Elio, I was completely serious when I told you that I remembered everything. I did, and I do. I think of you so many times each day…wishing I could touch your shoulder, point things out to you…just wanting to share the minutiae of my day with you and hear about yours, and the bigger things too, of course. I miss your smile, your voice, your laugh, your huge clumsy hugs, your sweet kisses, your eyes that are a million different colors, your hands in mine. I miss you terribly, my dear goose._

_I don’t want you to feel compelled to do anything about this letter. I’m not asking you for anything. You are young…so much lies before you…and I want you to do all of it, anything you want to do. But if you want me in your life in any way, I want to be there, Elio. I would love to see you again. I’d love to hear about what you’re doing. Your friendship is priceless to me. I absolutely treasure my memories of the time we spent together. I don’t feel like words can ever adequately express what it meant to me, what you still mean to me. I just have to trust that you know and feel it also._

_Please write me back. I love hearing from you…what you’re doing today, what you’re thinking of doing tomorrow or next week or next year, anything. You are in my thoughts constantly._

_Oliver, Oliver._

_With great affection and friendship always,  
Oliver_

I clutched the letter to my chest, trying to slow my breathing, and immediately walked toward the telephone. The delay in delivery meant that a phone call was imperative, the cost be damned. But as I moved, I realized that I didn't know where to look for Oliver's phone number. I could check my father's files...look around his desk. As I passed the phone, my eyes landed on a scrap of paper covered in my mother's lovely script and taped to the tabletop: "Oliver in NY" followed by many numbers. How long had that been there? Had my mother been home, I would have picked her up, spun her around, and kissed her warm cheek emphatically. _Merci Maman._

As I dialed the seemingly endless series of digits required to connect Italy to New York, my hands shook, and my heart fluttered like a wild thing in my chest. I bounced on the balls of my feet as I listened to the rings on the other end: One…two…three….

When he answered, just hearing his hello caused relief to flood through me. I sank into the chair beside the phone.

“Oliver, hi. Your letter only just arrived. The Italian post can be terrible, but three months?! I’m so sorry.”

“I wondered.”

“How are you?”

“I’m doing OK. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I worry about you! And I’m sorry I haven’t written. Or called.”

“Given our last conversation, I can hardly blame you. You thought….”

“Yeah, I thought you were getting married, and you’d be busy with all that.”

“I thought maybe my letter had scared you. I was going to call when the term wrapped up.”

“Your letter didn’t scare me. At all. It made me the happiest I’ve been since you were here last summer.”

“Really?” Oliver asked me quietly, his tone cautious but hopeful.

“Yes, really! I only read it moments ago, but I had to run in here and call you.”

“I'm so glad you did! Oh Elio, I miss you so much! I want to reach through the phone and hold you.”

“I want that too, more than you know. But let’s try to make up for lost time. Tell me: are you really OK?”

“Yes, I am. The break up was hard in some ways. But the reason things had been off and on with us—and it was off last summer when I was with you, in case you were wondering—was because I don’t think either of us was ever sure. Much worked well between us…we were good friends…but neither of us was certain that what we had was sustainable for the long haul. After I got back from Italy, we were both feeling pressured by our families, and I thought I owed it to her to either propose or break up with her for good. I’m not sure why I chose the wrong option before I chose the right one. After I proposed, it felt so wrong that it was easier to see it, I guess. Could you hear it in my voice, when I told you about it?”

“Well, I could tell that you weren’t sure, and that you were seeking approval from me. You didn’t sound like a guy who was bursting at the seams to tell everyone that he’d gotten engaged.”

“As usual, you knew me better than I knew myself.”

“I don’t know, Oliver. I knew that you had a whole life in New York, something that I was not part of, and so I expected things to get complicated when you went back. But I was still kind of blindsided by the engagement.”

“I can imagine. I felt terrible. You were trying so hard to be brave, to give me the support I was seeking, because you are one of the most giving people I’ve ever met. But I could tell it was hurting you. And it hurt me to hurt you.”

“I knew all of that” I assured him. “I didn’t want you to hurt on my account, or be worried about me. That's why I stayed away, didn't call or write…I didn’t want to make things harder for you, or mess things up with your fiancée.”

“Oh Elio, I was a fool. Trying to come home and pick up the threads of an old life as if I’d never left. There was no way anything was going to be the same again after my summer with the Perlmans.”

“Yeah, we do tend to have that effect on people,” I said, laughing for the first time in the conversation. Oliver laughed too. My chest unclenched a little bit at the sound.

“So, may I call you? And write to you?” he asked me, sounding more relaxed.

“Of course. And I will too.”

“Are you OK? I haven’t heard about you.”

“Me okay.” He snorted at that, which made me grin. “Really, I’m fine,” I continued. “I graduate in about a month! I’m still figuring out where to go to college. I actually got accepted at Juilliard…just waiting for the financial aid numbers to come through to see if I can go.”

“Elio, that’s amazing! Congratulations! I’m not surprised, of course…they’d be idiots not to take you…but I’m so proud of you.”

I felt myself beaming, and wished he could see it through the phone. “Thanks Oliver. I’m pretty excited.”

“Wait, did you come to Juilliard to audition, and not tell me you were in New York?”

“No. They held auditions in Rome, actually...I went there. I have been to Juilliard before, though; I went to a music camp there the summer before we met.”

“Wow, that’s cool.”

“It was a great experience. And it made me fall a little bit in love with New York City.”

“There’s a lot to love. But it’s not Italy. Oh, Elio…” he half-sighed my name, exhaling into the phone slowly.

“Elio, Elio,” I could not resist answering.

“Oliver, Oliver,” he replied, his voice breathy and heated. My own breath caught, and all my blood rushed to my groin.

“You still drive me crazy,” I said to him, grinning stupidly and trying to resume normal breathing.

“Good,” he said, and I could hear his smile. I imagined those perfect white teeth between his beautiful, kissable lips. “Elio, listen, I have to get going. I’m teaching in a couple of hours, and I need to spend some time prepping my lecture.”

“Got it. I have homework I should probably look at, too. And I’m working on a new Haydn sonata that is totally kicking my butt, but it’s awesome.”

“I’d love to hear it sometime. I'm so, so glad you called. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Teach well.”

“Thanks, play well. And keep me posted about college. If you come here….” Oliver trailed off, sounding fragile and hopeful at the same time.

“If I come there, it would be so good to be able to see you again,” I said, trying to keep things simple.

“Yes, it really, really would. Let me know!”

“I will. Bye Elio.”

He laughed. “Bye Oliver.”

And just like that, life was brighter and more buoyant than it had been since he was here last summer. I felt light enough to float, and was finally able to release a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding since the day I watched his train roll away. It seemed that our story was not over after all. I practically skipped to the piano to dive into the Haydn sonata, daydreaming of playing it for Oliver in New York one day soon.


End file.
